He stops but doesn’t turn. Like an echo, she calls again and this time he moves to face her. He has yellow, rheumy eyes. An overcoat hangs loosely on his body and he wears a trilby. He reminds her of a bird – thin like a heron or a stork.

He has an odd way of standing, leaning awkwardly on the stick as if he both needs it and doesn’t, and she makes an assumption that he is using it as a prop. It is eye-catching – dark wood with a polished silver top. He has a strange way of looking too – his eyes resting on hers for a second before slanting away and scanning the rest of the garden.

Now is her chance to bring up the neglect of the house, to mention the mould beneath the windows, the poor state of the kitchen and the bathroom, the dodgy boiler and the falling plaster. She should confront him too about potentially entering the flat without permission. More than anything though, she should take this chance to lead him into talking about the past.

She draws herself up and steps forward, closing the gap between them. ‘Zoe,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘I’m your new tenant.’

A moment’s hesitation and then he extends his own. His palm is powdery and dry. His bony fingers are gnarled like claws. He has a string of crudely tattooed numbers on his knuckles.

She lets go of his hand and her desire to complain diminishes. He is so frail, she is sure he must be ill. His left eye weeps; his skin droops. It’s as if he is wasting away. She imagines his body crumbling until there is only a pile of clothes.

‘I was wondering,’ she says, refocusing, ‘when the boiler would be fixed.’

He looks at her blankly, and despite her sympathy, she feels a nudge of frustration.

‘I’m sure Wayne has explained the problem. Maybe you’ve had a look already.’ It’s the closest she can come to accusing him of entering her flat and she pauses, waiting for him to confirm.

He is frowning. His face is gaunt, skin stretched so tight, Marina can see the shape of his skull. She thinks of Death. She thinks of Tarot cards. She thinks of Kenneth with a scythe instead of a cane.

The gate creaks and Mrs Hyde appears at the side of the house holding her empty laundry basket and heading for the forgotten clothes, which, in this weather, can surely be no drier than when they were first pegged out. She halts when she sees the two of them, blinks, mouth open, white breath misting the air. Marina raises her hand, but the woman ignores them both, hurrying to the washing line and pulling down the clothes. The rattle of the magpie comes again. Marina spots the bird in the magnolia tree. One for sorrow. She searches for another. No joy.